The tirade of something beautiful

To a man standing in the sun

You have made creation squalid,
and without an ounce unscattered.
Your only trick was flattered
by the palsy of grass and licks
of a lawnyard’s hair moving like it
had any not gifted at your whim.
What was once to utter is now to click,
will become if you choose to mimic
the cooled bacterial village mute
then retire from even atomic tune.
Confess you were born a hedonist.
What was accomplished by courting suns,
making yolk of their metabolic eggs
that grew as you grew your thumb?
What was accomplished when you begged
them stare long enough at you
to blind them and withhold geneses
then fold your same trick over me?


This is not about the sun. You miss out on everything if you labor thinking the speaker is speaking to the sun, or primarily to it.


~ by Jeremy on January 6, 2011.

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